


In Vulcan Hands

by Xela



Series: Little Black Dress [5]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Fisting, Hand Kink, M/M, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xela/pseuds/Xela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock has orders to obey, and Chekov may be more devious than anyone gives him credit for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Vulcan Hands

Spock paused in front of his quarters and studied his door. Someone had been in his room since he'd left. Spock considered his options; he had not survived this long by ignoring such warning signs. While the crew of the Enterprise was undoubtedly talented and ambitious, there were few who would risk a blatant attack. Spock was Kirk's second, and their loyalty to one another ran deep. It was well known that Kirk would not stand for another Second, and whoever took Spock out would not enjoy his or her promotion for long. Spock was also Favored by the Emperor, with an open invitation to Court.Therefore, an attack would be illogical, even by human standards.

“Computer. Who is in my quarters?”

“Slave Chekov,” the computer returned. Spock's eyebrow lifted. The Captain had ordered Spock to take initiative where the slave was concerned, so Kirk would not have ordered Chekov to attend him. Which, logically, meant Chekov had come to him of his own recourse--not an improbable situation as Kirk encouraged his slave to enjoy an unusual amount of freedom. Spock was also aware that his deadline for bedding the slave was drawing swiftly to a close. And as the boy was already here, it would be illogical for Spock to delay.

Chekov was kneeling in the center of the room, shirtless, clad only in silk pants that clung to his legs. His palms were open on his thighs and his head bowed down, the curve of his spine aesthetically pleasing. His skin gleamed with a thin sheen of sweat in Spock's warm apartments, the moisture making the ends of his long hair curl and darken. Spock found the sight illogically arousing. There was much about Slave Chekov he found illogical.

Spock moved about his room as if Chekov was not there, stripping off his uniform and changing into a soft pair of black pants and his tight undershirt. He lowered the lights, lit several candles and let himself slip into a light meditative state. Chekov didn't move throughout it all.

“Why are you here?” Spock questioned, not bothering to turn around and acknowledge the slave. He stretched up, feeling his muscles loosen and relax.

"It is end of the week," Chekov said carefully. Spock rose gracefully, unhurried and unconcerned. Spock turned and gazed steadily at the kneeling slave, contemplating his answer. He had not said Kirk sent him, which confirmed Spock's conclusion that Chekov was here of his own accord. Proof of the unprecedented amount of freedom Chekov was offered.

“Does the Captain know you are here?” Chekov raised his eyes and met Spock's gaze with a firmness rarely seen in slaves, the flickering of the candles casting long shadows on the boy's face. The corners of his lips quirked up, and Spock was reminded of old Earth movie posters depicting images of villains, their visages cast in shadow.

“The Keptin knows where I am at all times.” It was not an answer.

“I believe what you mean to say,” Spock countered, stepping into Chekov's space and enjoying the way his eyes immediately fell and his physicality shrank, “is that the Captain has the resources to know where you are at all times. Attend.” Chekov immediately pressed his forehead to the ground, his long arms curved around his body and resting by his feet, palms up.

The slave had beautiful hands. Long, slender. They moved like music, tempered and precise. They held a fluidity and awareness that was largely absent in humans, whom Spock found frenetic and expansive. Spock very much wanted to see those hands bound and contained.

“To the bed,” Spock ordered impassively. He watched the way Chekov rose: the economy of movement, the play of his muscles, the gentle sweep of his hands. He was two steps away from the bed when Spock struck, propelling them those last few feet, his body pinning the slave to the bed. He watched Chekov's pupils dilate and his pulse quicken.

Spock wrapped his hands around the slave's wrists, grinding against the fragile bones until he knew there would be bruises. The boy gasped softly at the pain and grew hard beneath him. Spock allowed himself a moment of satisfaction before guiding the slave's hands up to the headboard where two DNA-keyed magnetic cuffs snapped into place.

Spock's bed frame had been specially commissioned by the Vulcan High Commander, Lithe Hand to the Empress Herself. The cuffs and the headboard were made of an iridescent dark material found only on one very small planet, deemed an Imperial Treasure. When one strained against the bonds, the tensions caused the headboard to resonate in notes pleasing and arousing to Vulcan ears, the tone and depth of which changed according to the strength of the pull. Pavel tested his bonds cautiously and they both hummed softly.

“Leesth'gra,” Pavel murmured. Spock should not have been surprised that a slave like Chekov knew the significance of this technology.

“A gift,” Spock confirmed. The only way anyone could get such accoutrement. He turned Chekov over onto his stomach, guiding the cuffs around so the boy's arms were stretched out, back taut. He traced the line of the slave's back, cataloging and planning, touching spots that made most humans squirm. The cuffs remained silent, a testament to Chekov's training. He settled his hand on the curve of the slave's ass. Pale and smooth, though Spock's sensitive fingers could feel old callouses and faded scars. Well but responsibly used.

“I have wondered how a slave such as you came to be so far from the central planets.” He felt the minute, involuntary tightening of Chekov's muscles before he regained control and relaxed again. Chekov offered no explanation, but Spock didn't require one.

Spock carefully removed the silk pants from the slave; they were quite fetching, and certainly something Kirk favored. He'd want them back. The slave was well proportioned, made of wiry muscle and pale flesh. Spock touched it all, probing the slave's emotions and finding him calm, controlled, and slightly aroused. A most unusual slave indeed. 

Despite Chekov willingly spreading his legs at the lightest touch, Spock still employed a spreader bar, forcing Chekov wider, open. He teased Chekov's opening with a dry finger; the slave had already slicked and stretched himself, most likely in anticipation of events to come.

“You are very accommodating,” Spock observed, pressing slick fingers deep into the slave's body. “Though I find that the Captain tends to inspire a certain brand of loyalty in his subordinates.”

“Including you, Commander?” Pavel asked. Spock's answer was to slide four fingers into Pavel's ass, his long fingers curling up. The headboard sang as Pavel twisted away from the sudden intrusion, though his muscles stretched easily for Spock. He could feel the pulse of the slave's lifeblood and the clench of muscles around his sensitive fingers. He stroked in and out, varying the depth and pressure, seeing what made the headboard hum.

“I am content with my current posting,” Spock told the slave, pausing to add more lube to his hand. It would be bad form to return Kirk's property to him needlessly damaged. Pavel yelled when Spock flattened his palm and pushed up to just before the widest part of his hand, thumb lying in the crease. Slowly he spread his fingers, feeling the tight muscle pull and stretch. “And it is my intent to ensure nothing jeopardizes my...contentment.”

“That...is admirable goal,” the slave gasped, holding himself as still as possible. Spock could feel the tension in his muscles, his determination not to give anything away, to keep the Leesth'gra from singing. Spock knew he would see this slave's composure lost before the night was through.

Spock took his time; he had learned rather quickly that patience was not a human strength. He enjoyed the give of Chekov's muscles as they stretched, the way he moaned and gasped. He was tight and cool to Spock at first, but soon everywhere he touched blazed hot.

Spock worked his hand in further, allowing the sensuality of the act--one of the most taboo on Vulcan--to bank his arousal, build slowly. His headboard told him Chekov's reactions, the ripples of pleasure-pain so intense not even the most well trained slave could remain unresponsive. When he was buried deep, his thumb sliding against the slave's perineum, the headboard hummed constantly, the tone varying with the strength of Chekov's reactions. Spock stretched himself over the length of the slave's back, pressing his clothed chest against the firm planes of the boy's back.

"You will take more," Spock whispered in the boy's ear. Threat, promise, matter of fact. He felt Chekov shudder beneath him, muscles clenching around his hand. Every move the slave made telegraphed through the place where they were joined. Spock opened himself and tasted the slave's thoughts. The dizzying sharp swirl of human emotions fed Spock's own intense arousal, almost broke his own control. He could do anything to the slave beneath him and the boy would beg for more. A heady feeling, that much knowledge, that much power.

Spock carefully tucked his thumb into the palm of his hand and pressed.

“Chërtov--ваша рука...” The litany of Russian was strangely erotic; Spock had never needed aural encouragement, but there was something wanton and uncontrolled in the slave's words. Spock pressed his forehead into the dip the boy's back, let the slave's exquisite responsiveness travel through him, and slid down, dragging his teeth over the raised ridge of the slave's spine. He felt every shudder as his hand slid home, the slave's ass taking him to the wrist. Spock bit down on the plump curve of one cheek, and the headboard wailed, the sharp pain mixing with the duller pressure of his fingers curling into a fist.

Spock took a centering breath and rotated his hand. Chekov clenched around him, muscles tightening. The dual tones that filled the room almost drowned out the animal noises as the slave's control shattered. Every movement of Spock's hand translated into a subtle change of the notes from the headboard, louder, softer, changes too minute for a human to hear.

Spock closed his eyes and allowed his mind to expand through the sensitive psi points in his hand. He touched the slave's mind, awash with pleasures amplified. Spock's body felt too sensitive, and his mind broke into a million crystalline shards under the onslaught. He distantly felt the slave buck beneath him, hoarse voice yelling into the mattress. Twin notes of urgency filled the room.

Spock shifted his fist so that his knuckles brushed against the boy's prostate. Spock's body convulsed with th slave, mirroring Chekov's explosive physical response. His muscles tensed with release and he _felt_ too much.

Spock came back to himself well before the boy who lay panting on his bed, head turned to one side. He continued his exploration until the boy was a shaking, fucked-out mess beneath him. By the time he was through Chekov was so sensitized his body seemed to react even to the beat of Spock's pulse. The boy whined when Spock finally pulled his hand free, taking less care than he probably should with another's property. The cuffs sang softly as the boy twitched and flinched with the aftershocks of Spock's treatment.

Spock rose gracefully, composed even as he committed the image of the slave, stretched out and quivering, to memory. He wanted to do this again; he wanted to do more than this. Spock wasn't accustomed to wanting something that wasn't his, and the desire unsettled him. As Kirk had already known when he'd ordered Spock to make use of his slave. One more way to guarantee Spock's cooperation.

Spock took his time in the bathroom, wiping away all physical traces of what had transpired between them. By the time he exited, skin damp from the indulgence of a liquid shower, the cuffs were no longer singing and Chekov had found his equilibrium. Spock unlocked the cuffs and bar with clinical efficiency.

"You may go," Spock dismissed. The slave stepped into his pants, his movements less fluid than usual. That was the only evidence he gave—not even the hint of pain crossed his face as he moved towards the door.

Chekov paused before Spock, eyes hidden by his fringe.

“Thank you, Commander,” the slave said softly. “It is good to know vhere you stand.” He glanced up, his lip curling into a smirk, before he glided out of the room. Spock had the disquieting thought he'd given up something quite crucial without knowing what.


End file.
